


The Unsinkable John Watson

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Prompt Fic, Wartime, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:08:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old man talking about stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unsinkable John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> For the July 3 prompt (The poem [The Hospital Ship](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/563968.html#cutid1)).

"Bombing a _hospital ship_?" a bandaged orderly snarled, pulling the oar so viciously that he splashed more than he rowed. "Those goddamn Huns aren't human."

"I beg to differ, Jackley," the older man said, pulling on his own oar. "They are all too human. I've been in a war before." He winced and rubbed his left shoulder, and resumed rowing. "The only rule that stays the same throughout war is that it is your duty to kill the other side. Whoever you are, and whoever the other side is."

"There are rules, dammit. Sir. What's next, bombing women and kids?"

"'Nits make lice,'" the man responded. "That charming motto made an easy excuse for American cavalry to wipe out entire Red Indian villages – down to the last woman and infant."

Two others in the boat shouted and held the orderly back when he dropped his oar and lunged at the man, face contorted with rage. (One of the patients retained enough of his head to rescue the floating oar.)

The man never stopped rowing. "You'll have to forgive an old man if he has a little more perspective than you'd like, Jackley. It's why we're so cold-blooded when something like this happens; we've seen it before. And I find it hard to affix evil solely to the entire German race when I have personally dealt with one or two of the vilest, most murderous men ever to walk God's earth – and they more red-bloodedly English than I, seeing that I hail originally from Scotland. _Danke schoen, Johann,_ " he added, accepting the oar from the young man who'd saved it. " _Setz dich zu mir._ "

" _Ja, ja, Herr Hauptmann Doktor Vatson,_ " the young man said gratefully, nestling in behind the older man's broad back and away from the glares of the orderly (and of a few others in the boat).

The old man laughed quietly and shook his head. "Fate is a peculiar thing. I could have had a far worse outcome. I might have gone on holiday."

Now it wasn't just the orderly. The nursing sister, the stoker, and the other doctor stared. Johann, whose grasp of English was about as good as his boatmates' of German, frowned in confusion.

"A few years ago," Dr. Watson said, rowing toward the lights of the coast, "before all this began, I was feeling my age – old, useless. Like a toothless warhound. The gentleman with whom I shared lodgings at the time recommended that we both go on a long holiday. He knew how dearly I'd wanted to see America some day, and booked us two first-class tickets. We were packing for that trip when my friend was urgently asked to do some work – some very long-term work – that had to start immediately. He cancelled everything. We – had a row about it. I think I've seldom been angrier at him. We didn't see each other for years, because of it." Someday he might write that denouement, when the times and the intelligence was not quite so perilous.

"But that incident taught me never to presume what fate lies in store for anyone or anything," he said. "I stayed in Sussex. He traveled to America for his work – on much humbler transport than the liner he had booked for our holiday to America. But unlike that mighty vessel, this one reached its destination."

He could see all their faces change as they understood what he meant. He remembered feeling his own face freeze in disbelief the morning he read that headline. The pair of them had spent that whole day silent, but near each other; not touching, but staying close.

"So you can see," he said lightly, "the fact that we did not go on holiday was the saving of both of us."

The sister crossed herself.

"Gor bless us, you're a ruddy good-luck charm," the stoker said. "No wonder we lived – we was with you!"

"Chance," the orderly sniffed. "Only chance."

"My friend's own theory, actually," Major Watson said. "But he will be very relieved to find chance staying on the side of keeping me alive, when I contact him tomorrow. In the meantime, could someone take up the oar who is not vested in glaring daggers at my poor patient?"

**Author's Note:**

> For the Watson's Woes July 3 2011 prompt (The poem [The Hospital Ship](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/563968.html#cutid1)).


End file.
